Hieroglyphics at Conisbrough Castle

Archaeologists, bookworms, and antiquarians – all specimen of the same genius – are the only really useful people in this dull, prosaic world. The discoveries they have made from time to time have been outstanding and invaluable. How beautiful is it to go into all buildings, to look into old books, to turn up the swords, and to discover and to lay bare treasuries which, like the gems of Golconda, have lain hidden for centuries. And then there is the fame those relic hunting people acquire! Who does not envy the halo of glory which encircles the brows of the gentleman who discover that matchless memento of bygone days bearing that strange and mistake inscription upon it, and which, when deciphered, was found to be the legend, “Bill Stumps, X his Mark.” I often dream of that achievement, and sigh as I think I was not there at the time. A local antiquary has just set out on a career which must confer upon him immortally, and make Rotherham the pride and the envy of Yorkshire. The gentleman was at Conisbrough Castle the other day, and there saw some quaint looking hieroglyphics which had been carved in the stone. It was not Greek, it could not be Latin, and he knew too much of Sunscrit and Hebrew to mistake the marks for anything in the languages. They did, however, resemble Chinese a little. What could they be? At last he came to t he conclusion that there was some of the private marks used by the cunning masons of olden time, and he set to and carefully copied into his notebook, no doubt with one laundable intention of preparing a learned disquisition upon it and unfolding such a tale as would make his brother and antiquarians weep tears of joy at the citation. I happened to go there with a friend a day or two ago, and a lady who acts as a guide rather proudly pointed out to us the marks, and told us what the antiquated gentleman – I mean the antiquarian – had said and done about them, and awaited our expressions of pleasure and wonderment. Alas for the poor gentleman’s discoveries. My unromantic friend cooly examined the characters, and they turned out to be simply an inscription in Pittman’s phonetic shorthand, which when interpreted read – “George Piper, Conisbro’.” I hope the dear antiqurian will not have his illusion dispelled.